An Addiction Apart
by batistafan
Summary: Jeff Hardy develops an unforseeable friendship with a woman and finds himself healing from a difficult addiction while rendering help he never planned to give. Features Ken Kennedy, Shane Helms and more.
1. Chapter 1

**An Addiction Apart **

Chapter 1

Rated – NC-17/MA

Author: Batistafan(given name, given on request)

Characters include: Jeff Hardy, Ken Kennedy Shane Helms, and an Original Character from my first fiction, Lizzie McBride, as well as others.

_**Disclaimer**__**: This is a mature fanfiction intended for mature readers. This story contains graphic material dealing with addiction, as well as explicit, mature, consensual sexual situations and these would not be deemed appropriate for all readers.**_

_**I do not own nor claim to have any affiliation with the WWE, its characters, wrestlers, staff or other affiliates. I do own any original characters that I have created, as well as scenarios that ensue throughout the course of this fiction. However, since both my characters and scenarios are inexorably intertwined with those of the WWE, my ownership of them is not autonomous.**_

_**I do not endorse nor do I discourage the use of any brand-name products that might be referenced in the fiction and have no claim to them as they are property of their respective companies of license. Thank you kindly for not suing.**_

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"…Every student, celebrity, CEO and math teacher in the world has experienced love, loneliness, fear and embarrassment at some point. To understand this is to level an often very lopsided playing field."

Anna Nalick, _Singer-Songwriter_

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It was hot…stiflingly so, yet regardless of how hard the wind blew in intermittent gusts, it never swept the heat away with it. Droplets of sweat pooled between her breasts, soaking the center of her bra, magnifying the heat to an annoying degree. To Lizzie McBride's left was the frail and weeping frame of her mother—to her right, was the impatient and wiggling body of her three year old nephew, Dillan. In front of her was the shiny silver coffin, draped with an American Flag, flanked by two immaculately uniformed Marines. Inside of that coffin lay the body of her big brother, Phillip.

Too numb to feel more than the heat, Lizzie chanced a glance at the people around her. Her ex-stepfather, Charles was seated two sections over, under the same green awning, with his new wife. Sweet woman, despite the fact that she was closer in age to Lizzie than she was to Lizzie's ex-stepfather. Charles had married Lizzie's mother after Lizzie and Phillip's natural father had passed away during their childhood. Despite the fact that he hadn't been her biological father, Charles had been unerringly, loving to Lizzie and Phillip, but the marriage had dissolved in divorce nonetheless. Lizzie's younger half sister Laramie, the mother of the squirming Dillan and also the 6 month old Dalton, whom she currently held in her arms, was the only child that Charles and Lizzie's mother, Eileen had produced in their 15 year marriage.

Thinking on Laramie, but also prompted by the sharp elbow of Dillan, who was flailing in earnest caused Lizzie to turn to her right. What poor choices, the beautiful Laramie had made. Married to a man 12 years her senior, she had early on, been thrust into a relationship that had produced two children and multiple unexplained injuries to Laramie. As if pulled forward by Lizzie's very own thoughts, Laramie's husband Victor leaned forward over Laramie's lap and tapped Dillan sharply on the knee, eliciting instant obedience from the boy. Lizzie, upon catching his stern glance, turned away

Sad, so much going on around her, in such a somber setting, and all she could truly feel or think about were the constant droplets of sweat, still dripping down the valley of her breasts. It wasn't until the two soldiers began to fold the flag that had moments earlier draped the coffin, explaining what each of the twelve folds meant, that Lizzie felt anything of any substantial weight at all. It was at that very instant that she realized her heart was sincerely breaking and all of the demons she had previously fought to banish were back suddenly with a vengeance. There would be no more Phillip, ever. Gone was the Phillip who had come to Laramie's rescue countless times when Victor had put his hands on her in rage, gone was the Phillip who had danced Lizzie's senior prom dance with her when she'd been ditched by the football player who had only taken her there as an initiation for the team. An IED in an abandoned vehicle on a dirt road in Iraq had taken his life and the lives of three other Marines with him. He was…_gone_ and he wasn't ever coming back.

Even so, Lizzie couldn't cry, because her mother, who was currently shaking with sorrow, with her face pressed into Lizzie's side, needed her. There was no faltering for Lizzie now, because Laramie, who was also wracked with sobs and just barely being consoled by her austere and uncaring husband, needed her. And even as the Marine knelt before her mother to present her with the folded flag and the Medals of Honor, that Phillip's bravery in service to his country had garnered…all Lizzie could truly think about were the droplets of sweat…

…_**SIX MONTHS LATER…**_

_**American Airlines Center, Dallas Texas. RAW House Show.**_

It wasn't as if he had actually _planned_ to be lying on his back in the middle of the floor, shaking away the haze of unconsciousness, but the fact was simply that the floor was indeed where he was. And perplexed was how he found himself; wondering who, what why and how he had come to be on his back on the highly polished back hallway flooring of the American Airlines Center arena. The only thing that Jeff Hardy knew for certain was that he _hadn't_ voluntarily lain down and so the few snickers emerging from the blurry expressions of what he assumed were people in the near vicinity, told him that he most probably had caused his own fall and was just now awakening. But, then again he _was_ known for that sort of thing…the now and then clumsy episodes that had his friends and family wondering how he had made it to adulthood without losing a limb…or two.

It wasn't until his swimming vision had cleared that he was able to clearly identify the mortified countenance of a woman looking down on him from above. The fuzzy mop of hazel hair and the glasses that dangled from her very pert nose didn't ring a bell in his subconscious and so he was certain that he'd never met her. She was, however attempting to balance upon her shoulder one of the thickest bolts of fabric wound around a stout cardboard roll that he'd ever laid eyes on. Two of his fingers cautiously applied to his forehead told him that the knot rising just above his right brow was probably a result of his collision with something or someone and so Jeff Hardy couldn't help but wonder if the bolt on the woman's shoulder was in fact, _that something_.

He continued to stare at the bewildered woman for a mere second or more before attempting to rise. The attempt, however elegant failed, when Jeff stumbled a bit and then righted himself on both feet, pressing his palm to the ever-present knot as a grimace knitted his arched brows.

"What happened?" Came his mumbled attempt to solve the mystery.

The woman to whom he spoke, flushed a deep scarlet but before she could even stutter an explanation, her courage fled her and in her confusion and embarrassment, she simply sloughed off the bolt of fabric to the person nearest to her and shuttled down the hallway at the speed of light, leaving Jeff and his question still standing in the middle of the hall, right along with her apparent humiliation.

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"Idiot!" Lizzie hissed in a frustrated whisper as she slammed the stall door in the women's restroom shut behind her, and then for good measure she kicked the toilet, wincing and cursing when her toe began to throb. "You're such an idiot!"

It wasn't enough that she'd had an accidental run-in with a roster member. It happened all the time, no big deal being as every staff member in the WWE and every roster member seemed to be burdened with the same requirement. To rush. Everywhere you went in every task you undertook it was automatically assumed that you should rush. Time was money, money was time. That was how the WWE looked at everything. So naturally it was commonplace to bump into people, accidentally receive a shoulder check from someone or have something knocked out of your hand by another someone who wasn't watching where they were going.

The problem with this incident was that Lizzie had simply knocked senseless the one person on the entire whole of the roster that she had an all-out maddening crush on. Jeff Hardy…of all people! It wouldn't have been so bad if she had merely bumped him with the bolt of Egyptian cotton. He might have smiled and good-naturedly nodded, dismissing the accident as just that—an accident. But no, Lizzie had spun around with the bolt after stepping around a member of the catering crew and had such a solid grasp on the stocky bolt that she'd nearly rammed it through his skull before she'd even realized he was there. The impact had taken him off of his feet, tree trunk style, sending him straight to his back on the floor. In Lizzie's horror, she was too frozen even to render aid! She'd basically stood immobile until he'd begun to come around, despite the whispers and chuckles of the quickly forming circle of onlookers, at which point she had uttered a prayer that some mythical creature would swoop down and fly off with her.

Any delusional hope of catching his eye in some romantic way was completely dashed…oh, she'd caught his eye alright…literally. There was a purple knot above his brow to prove it! And so for an eternity, she would be pegged as _'the girl who knocked out Jeff Hardy'_, of that she was convinced. To top it all off, Lizzie had so completely lost her bearings that, instead of giving him the explanation he deserved or at the very least an apology, she had handed the huge bolt of fabric to a complete stranger and run away like a child! She was sure that the fabric would be returned, but now everyone who'd seen the incident knew unequivocally that she was a complete idiot and that would be a hard shtick to live down.

As much as Lizzie wanted to, she knew she couldn't hide in the bathroom forever, so she mustered what was left of her ever fleeting courage and made a mad dash for the wardrobe area.

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It wasn't as if he found her interesting because she was beautiful or intriguing…awkward was probably a better category to place her in. What's more, was that he was confused as to why he even cared. He'd seen her a dozen times or more and though he was not fascinated, he was amused. Ken Kennedy had in the past, seen her nearly bowl over Hornswaggle once while carrying a trunk with a strength that a woman of her slight stature shouldn't be able to possess. Ken had also been in the vicinity once when she'd accidentally snagged her watch on Ted DiBiase, Jr.'s jacket and nearly torn a hole in it. She certainly had a way with accidental physical contact, but why he found himself watching was a mystery.

She wasn't even in the league of the WWE Diva's, what with her sandy mop of unruly curls and those glasses…far too big for her face. Even now, as he watched her disaster with Jeff Hardy, he thought she could use some polishing up. The poor girl appeared to be the same size from the shoulder to the ankle, probably weighing under a hundred pounds, wearing some hideously, large woolen sweater that would have come closer to fitting him than her. Her blue jeans were covered with rips and tears that indicated that they were the product of a 1980's stonewashed nightmare, but at least they flared at the calf, preventing her from looking like a walking pencil. Ken shook his head as he glanced down at her shoes from his seated position on a plastic crate. He'd just about bet that they might be Buster Brown orthopedics or something of the like and he was bewildered to find himself smiling slightly. He thought she was so nondescript and bland that she might be passed over by the average person who looked at her…then again maybe she was so used to that sort of thing that she dressed to fit the part.

Of course, she wasn't completely boring. He had noticed that despite her gaunt appearance, she had a most interesting heart shaped face with a full mouth shaped like a heart too, and if you could get past the glasses and the dark circles that ringed her lower lids, he had to admit that she had a pair of the most beautiful almond shaped eyes he'd ever seen. They were blue…no, bluer than blue. They were like the pacific just before a storm hit…deep and haunting, the irises rimmed with an icy grey tinge as if they had been painted there. Once those eyes landed on you it was almost paralyzing. The lashes that covered those eyes were in great contrast to her hazel hair…they were black and long, casting a shadow on her cheeks whenever she blinked. They looked as though they had no right being there, but they were. Either way…it still bothered him a little that he found himself gazing at her with curiosity, especially since he hadn't really looked at any woman with more than complete disinterest since the day that his wife Emily had passed away. And without a doubt, this woman was _nothing_ like 'his' Emily.

Ken shoved the pencil into his leather-bound journal and stuffed it into his bag after sketching in a rough draft of the poor girl's stricken expression. It's what his bereavement counselor had suggested he do—sketch, write, something…anything to get his thoughts on paper, so he didn't bottle everything up. He then stood to his feet and slung the bag over his shoulder, preparing to head out for the hotel.


	2. Chapter 2

**An Addiction Apart **

Chapter 2

Rated – NC-17/MA

Author: Batistafan(given name, given on request)

Characters include: Jeff Hardy, Ken Kennedy Shane Helms, and an Original Character from my first fiction, Lizzie McBride, as well as others.

_**Disclaimer**__**: This is a mature fanfiction intended for mature readers. This story contains graphic material dealing with addiction, as well as explicit, mature, consensual sexual situations and these would not be deemed appropriate for all readers.**_

_**I do not own nor claim to have any affiliation with the WWE, its characters, wrestlers, staff or other affiliates. I do own any original characters that I have created, as well as scenarios that ensue throughout the course of this fiction. However, since both my characters and scenarios are inexorably intertwined with those of the WWE, my ownership of them is not autonomous.**_

_**I do not endorse nor do I discourage the use of any brand-name products that might be referenced in the fiction and have no claim to them as they are property of their respective companies of license. Thank you kindly for not suing.**_

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"You can take from every experience what it has to offer you. And you cannot be defeated if you just keep taking one breath followed by another."

**Oprah Winfrey**

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This isn't what a girl dreams of being when she plans out her life as a child, or when she contemplates her future as she's a teenager—not even close. It certainly wasn't what Lizzie had in mind when _she'd_ been young…down on her knees on the side of the road between venues, purging her stomach of everything she'd eaten, for the second time since early morning.

She thought she'd beaten it. But she was as wrong about that as she was about everything else in her life. Six month's since Phillip's death and she'd been doing it since the day after the funeral. This life…this addiction, wasn't something she'd planned to do because it sounded like a good way to deal with her problems. This addiction, this way out had blindsided her, full-force and it had been such a healing in her early teens that she had allowed it to nearly consume her. Lizzie McBride could remember the exact moment when it had assaulted her—right after a party she'd attended where she'd been humiliated by the captain of the basketball team.

At just over 5'3" tall and a hundred and sixty pounds, with her wiry blonde hair and awkward appearance, Lizzie was _nothing_ to look at. It hadn't helped that she had no sense of fashion, no real friends and a near dying wish to simply fit in. Her brother Phillip had gently tried to dissuade her from going to the party, not only because of his good sense of what jerks the high-school jocks could be, but because of his knowledge of what went on at those types of parties. But the invitation from the cheerleading captain had been an offer Lizzie simply couldn't refuse and so she'd gone to the party, in her thick glasses, sporting an old _Metallica_ T-shirt, hoping to network with a wholly new social circle.

What had happened instead, was a volley of subtle insults from the wealthy teens, a half hearted effort from the cheerleader to make her feel welcome and a healthy dose of tobasco sauce secretly dumped in her drink. The deathblow to Lizzie's self esteem had been the hateful words from the basketball player, spoken loud enough to elicit full-out laughter from everyone in earshot.

Cornering her against the kitchen cabinet, the young man coolly informed her. "You're not like us…you're never gonna be like us. God put you on this earth so that the rest of us would have something to laugh at…He has a pretty great sense of humor, don't you think?"

At that moment, hurt and angry, Lizzie tried to edge past the boy so she could leave, but he wouldn't allow it, snaking his fingers out and grasping her forearm so he could hold her in place.

"The funniest thing about this whole situation is that you actually believed that someone wanted you at this party because they thought you were cool." He smiled showing the perfect row of white teeth, formed from thousands of dollars at a top notch orthodontist. "But nobody cares, Lizzie…you could die tonight and nobody at this party would lose any sleep over it. In fact we would all consider it a favor." Again he gripped her arm holding her there for one last insult. "You're fat, you're ugly and the only way you'll ever look like one of these girls is if you stapled one of their yearbook pictures to your face."

The sheer adrenaline coursing through her veins from the disgrace was all Lizzie needed to muster the strength to tear herself away and dart from the house, followed by the haunting sounds of laughter and music. Sick to her stomach from the tobasco in her drink and choking on her own tears, Lizzie stumbled, half running-half walking down the lengthy stone drive finally falling to her knees in a patch of ivy a few yards off of the beaten path. It was then that the wave of nausea overtook her and she dumped the entire contents of her stomach right there on the ground. Something happened in those precious few seconds…endorphins rushing to her aid began to calm her racing pulse and focused her blurring vision. Oddly, Lizzie felt better after the fact, immensely better.

And so it was born, that night…the deep and thick root of the addiction that reared its powerful head every time she had a problem she couldn't handle. It was there, seducing her into comforting arms whenever someone was cruel, whenever something she'd undertaken failed miserably. No matter how fickle the world was, the dirty little secret never failed her…it served a dual purpose, in fact. Not only did Lizzie feel the euphoric sense of control over her own circumstances each and every time she stuck her finger down her throat, she quickly began to drop pound after pound and kept it off. And true to form, as every addiction does; it pacified for awhile, but never fully healed her of the wounds.

In her early twenties, after being caught in the act by her big brother, Lizzie had sought counseling and been diagnosed with Bulimia. Such an ugly word…and though she never believed that she couldn't control it, everyone else thought otherwise. By the time Lizzie had managed to wrangle the addiction into submission with the help of the counseling team, she'd had the whole damned thing down to a fine science. She no longer had to use her fingers—Lizzie need only think about it and could easily purge anything she ate or drank. She had begun to use raw carrots as markers, so that by watching for those items to come up, Lizzie would know when to stop. She knew which foods she could eat and then purge and yet still feel full and which foods to avoid—those that wouldn't give a lasting feeling of fullness. Before the recovery, her addiction had become such a trial and error experiment in the sheer perfecting of it that Lizzie had placed more effort into it than she had in anything she'd ever undertaken. It had become a demon she could barely fight and by the time she got it under control, she'd nearly lost everything that meant anything to her.

In the two years following, Lizzie began to rebuild her existence with the help of her slightly dysfunctional family and the continued help of a counselor. She had put on forty pounds and had actually incepted the process of dealing with issues head-on. But then the overseas call had come. The satellite phone had been thrust into her hand by a WWE staffer, while she was at a house show in Connecticut and that was where she had learned of Phillip's death. Still Lizzie had resisted the old temptation and managed to leave the arena and help her mother put Phillip's affairs in order.

Then a mere week later, Phillip's body had been shipped home and the funeral had come and her sister Laramie had shown the final traces of a black eye when arriving for the ceremony. And Lizzie's mother had been clinging to her for two days in tears with barely coherent mumbling over the loss of her only son. Also had been the knowledge that though the WWE had been generous in the amount of time they'd given her for bereavement purposes, the window of time simply wasn't wide enough to repair the shattered remains of her family. Lizzie's already shaken composure and the weight of the responsibilities thrust on her had caused the whole dynamic to snap. It was at that moment, when she was curled in a ball on the floor of the darkened closet in her childhood bedroom, hiding from the people at the reception, that the demon had poked his head right back into her subconscious and whispered to her _'Its okay Lizzie, come with me. I'll fix it…we'll fix it together…Just like we did before.'_

So for the last six months, Lizzie had been submitting to the familiar addiction and hating herself every second she drew breath.

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"I swear! You live for the sheer joy of pissing me off, don't you?" Genesis Elliot stood above her suitcase, arms akimbo, surveying the results of Jeff Hardy's latest practical joke.

The low snicker that rumbled from his chest as he reclined on the hotel bed, fingers laced together, hands propping his head up, only served to bring forth a sharp scowl from his girlfriend.

Genesis grasped the first article of clothing in her suitcase and began to pull it from within. "When did you have time to do something like this?" She asked in mock annoyance, barely able to rein in her laughter, "And where in the world did you manage to get your hands on this many zip-ties?"

Tugging on the shirt, revealed that each and every item in the luggage had been rolled lengthwise and cleverly zip-tied to each successive item, creating one long strand of clothing that Jeff had wound like a huge fabric snake into Genesis' suitcase.

"The sound crew has about a billion of them." Jeff revealed, chuckling again when he saw her huff as she began to drag the clothing further out. "I'm the one who should be irritated…it took me about an hour to do that." He crossed one foot over the other, still the picture of complete relaxation. "You have so many damned clothes, that if we stretch that thing out completely, it'll probably reach all the way upstairs to Orton's penthouse."

"I hate you, Jeff." She announced.

"You don't hate me." He teased softly, in his silken southern drawl. "You _love_ me."

Genesis leapt from her standing position, to straddle him as he lay on the bed. The impact of her body with his brought forth a tiny grunt from Jeff and he circled her waist with his palms, holding her there.

"I _do_ love you, Stupid." She said softly, cupping either side of his face with her hands, kissing him softly. "But if you ever zip-tie my wardrobe again, I'm going to restrain you to the bed in the middle of the night and invite the rest of the roster in here, so they can pay you back for all of the jokes you've been playing _them_ lately."

Jeff quirked a brow as he ran his lips over her chin. "You wouldn't dare." He whispered.

"Do you really want to risk it?" She teased, narrowing her eyes.

"Nuh, uh." Came his soft response. And if he was being totally truthful, he really _didn't_ want to be laid out and given his just desserts. Jeff hardy had been the perpetrator of a rash of ribs lately that had the entire roster paranoid as hell and looking over their shoulder.

Ribbing was a common thing in wrestling, all the way from the indy's up, but Jeff had turned the mostly harmless pastime into a full-scale assault on the WWE. It was his very own special brand of coping. Since he'd undertaken the process of rehabbing from a drug addiction that had nearly destroyed him, Jeff Hardy had come to the tough realization that life on the sober side was hellishly unforgiving. No longer able to depend on the soft warm fog created by the pain meds, Jeff found himself having to confront the aches in his bones and in his mind with startling clarity…and it was damned frightening. The street drugs were no longer there to be used as a crutch, or even to create the temporary joy of forgetting the pain of a life of bad choices. And so, what he was left with, was the need to replace one addiction with another.

Therefore, being the prankster that he was had instantly become a viable substitute to the use of chemical substances. The whole of his creative plans shaped in him a near giddy feeling, that served as the closest proxy to a drug-induced high and he found himself looking for every available opportunity to play a prank. Well…at least that was the case up until last night, when he'd been called into the office and heavily chided for a practical joke involving KY-jelly and a toilet seat.

Jeff had stood stoic, while Johnny Ace had ripped into him for a good twenty minutes, using all manner of threats. It wouldn't do well for Jeff to explain that the joke had been meant for his brother Matt, especially since it had been Triple H who had been the unwilling victim of the prank. Paul's intent to sit on the veritable throne had ended with him sliding sideways, right off the toilet. His quick reaction in trying to save his ass, literally, only resulted in his massive arm colliding with the toilet paper holder, ripping it clean off the stall wall. Once he'd managed to regain his footing, he'd yanked the stall door open in storming fury, pants still down around his ankles, his face contorted with rage and a comical roar bursting forth from deep within his chest. The incident only managed to garner unrestrained laughter from the other roster members who had seen Jeff doctor up the seat just minutes before. Though no one wanted to laugh, it was impossible to reign it in and the entire locker-room was buzzing with the aftermath of the joke, with everyone unable to control the levity and leaving one particular third generation rookie, seated on a bench nearby discreetly wiping the tears of mirth from his eyes.

It hadn't been hard for Paul Levesque to determine who the culprit had been, especially once he'd spied the tube of KY sticking out of Jeff Hardy's bag. Though Jeff had narrowly escaped a pummeling from the veteran wrestler, his actions had merely sealed his fate with an ass chewing from upper management. It didn't help either, that Stephanie McMahon had barely been able to leash her laughter as she stood behind Johnny while hearing of the episode. The knowledge that she somehow found it funny only served to provoke Jeff further and so he'd collected a handful of zip-ties from a toolbox on his way out of the arena and set about lashing Gen's wardrobe together.

Even now as he looked at Genesis, he wondered how she could even find it in her to love him; why she stuck around and put up with all of his shit was a mystery to _him_. But he was glad she did, because he didn't think he could make it through without _her_. "I think I'm gonna marry you one day." He said as if he was announcing that he thought he might like to buy a car in the near future.

Gen tilted her head to the side, a smirk forming on her lips. "What makes you think I even want to marry you? I don't even particularly like you right now." She kissed his forehead. "Besides, you know I'm only with you for the sex, right?"

Sensing a feisty change in her demeanor, he flipped her over on her back staring down at her. "Well, I can live with that."

Anything more that might have transpired between the two was cut short by a clipped knock on the hotel door and the sound of the key-card, announcing that Matt was about to enter.

"God-dammit…" Jeff muttered, only slightly annoyed that his brother had recently taken up responsibility for Jeff's continued recovery and appointed himself as babysitter.

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	3. Chapter 3

An Addiction Apart

**An Addiction Apart **

Chapter 3

Rated – NC-17/MA

Author: Batistafan(given name, given on request)

Characters include: Jeff Hardy, Ken Kennedy, Shane Helms, and an Original Character from my first fiction, Lizzie McBride, as well as others.

_**Disclaimer**__**: This is a mature fanfiction intended for mature readers. This story contains graphic material dealing with addiction, as well as explicit, mature, consensual sexual situations and these would not be deemed appropriate for all readers.**_

_**I do not own nor claim to have any affiliation with the WWE, its characters, wrestlers, staff or other affiliates. I do own any original characters that I have created, as well as scenarios that ensue throughout the course of this fiction. However, since both my characters and scenarios are inexorably intertwined with those of the WWE, my ownership of them is not autonomous.**_

_**I do not endorse nor do I discourage the use of any brand-name products that might be referenced in the fiction and have no claim to them as they are property of their respective companies of license. Thank you kindly for not suing.**_

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"A person reveals his character by nothing so clearly as the joke he resents."

**Georg Christoph Lichtenberg**  
_(1742 - 1799)_

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The myriad of voices intermingling with one another only served to increase the tempo of the pounding in his skull. And though he tried to pick out one singular sound from the others in order to focus, the attempt was stymied when his own breathing intertwined with what seemed like endless echoes of meaningless conversation. It was the closest thing to a panic attack that Ken Kennedy had ever had and they seemed to be happening more often. Sitting on a crate in the back hall of the arena in San Antonio after his match, still in full gear, with only a towel for comfort, he thought he just might be losing his mind. He could see people passing in front of him and he went unnoticed, with his vision swimming, his lungs fighting for a full satisfying breath and the voices, thrumming through his addled brain.

Before he could summon the courage to throw the towel at a passerby and ask for medical help, one voice seemed to break through the confusion, isolating itself from all of the others.

"I can help you with that."

The comment wasn't directed at him, Ken knew, but something about the soft silken reassurance, blocked out the flurry of other voices and he snapped his head upward to see where it came from.

"Just hold still for about ten seconds and I'll stitch it up for you. But don't move, or you'll get a needle in the hip."

It was the awkward girl from the wardrobe department, the one who had knocked Jeff Hardy on his ass. And she was stitching a small tear in the side seam of Cody Rhodes' tights. His vision focused as she knelt beside the massive wrestler, pulling his tights outward from his leg with one hand as she stitched with the deft fingers of the other. Ken held the towel on his lap as he watched and he only watched because it seemed so bizarre that she would be stitching the tights up while they were still on his body, opposed to undertaking the task _after_ he took them off.

"I appreciate you doing this, since I'm on in five." Cody commented, his fear of the woman with a needle clearly evident in the way he was avoiding looking down. "Will it hold through the match?"

Ken seemed to be waiting for her response to Cody, just as intently as Cody was and he heard her murmur. "It certainly should, but you might bring them to me afterward and I'll fix them for you using the machine." She did some sort of motion with her hand and then snipped the thread off with tiny scissors, which caused Cody to pale somewhat.

"You're good to go." Was her final word and she stood to her feet as Cody shook her hand and dashed off down the hall.

She must have felt herself being watched because she turned for less than the span of a breath and her eyes locked on Ken Kennedy. Her glance riveted from his face to the wall and back before she plodded away. The moment was nothing profound, nothing life altering, but what Ken Kennedy knew for certain was that in that moment, his headache had subsided, his breathing and heart-rate were back to normal and he seemed no worse for the wear.

"You gonna sit there all night day-dreaming or are you gonna get dressed so we can leave?" Shane Helms tossed a roll of athletic tape onto Ken's lap in an attempt to get his attention.

"Uh, yeah…I'm gettin' there. Just gimme a minute." Ken murmured, snatching up the tape and wiping the sweat from his brow with the towel.

"Well move then, Dude." Shane nudged Ken's shoulder. "There's this girl and she has a friend…I convinced them to meet us at a club after we eat—"

"I'm not in the mood to meet any girls." Ken announced with a deep sigh. "I just wanna eat and get some sleep." His announcement should have been final, as he stood to his feet, but he should have known that Shane wouldn't leave well enough alone.

"It's been nearly a year, Buddy…you have to get back on the horse sometime and now's as good a time as any."

"She wasn't a fling, Shane. She was my wife." Ken said softly. "And I'm not ready to move on…I may not ever be."

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Lizzie had chosen the Thai restaurant not only because it happened to be the closest thing to the venue still open, but also because with her recent lack of funds, the inexpensive menu items provided a way for her to eat something with flavor opposed to raiding another hotel vending machine. But now, as she stood at the counter looking up at the menu, she cursed her hasty decision. Too much variety provided to large of a distraction.

So engrossed was Lizzie in her perusal that she never noticed the door swinging open as a small crowd of male wrestlers entered the restaurant. And certainly she never noticed that Jeff Hardy was leading the pack. She ticked off the mental list of choices tapping her foot to some unknown beat, unable to nail down an entrée.

Jeff grinned, nudging Ken's arm. "That's her." He whispered. "That's the girl who knocked me out huh?"

Ken nodded. It _was_ her. She had knocked Jeff senseless, but she had done something altogether different for _him_. Yet he said nothing.

Jeff stood behind her without her knowing and he observed her indecisive nature. Something about it was humorous, cute even. He should probably introduce himself. He cleared his throat and spoke.

"It doesn't matter what you choose, you'll just be hungry again in an hour, you know."

The voice cut into her thoughts and it startled Lizzie for a moment. Somebody knew. How could they know? She whirled around, her mouth dry, wondering who it could be and yet fully aware of exactly who it was because of the southern drawl.

"Excuse me?" She dared to ask, terrified that her secret was somehow emblazoned on her forehead for all to see.

"Oriental food." Jeff explained, smiling. "No matter what you eat, you're hungry in an hour."

"Oh." Lizzie responded, realizing that he was simply joking.

Jeff Hardy extended his right hand. "I'm Jeff."

Lizzie looked down at his hand for a split second and then back up at his eyes. The thought that she might pass out from the sheer terror of being confronted by the man she'd downed like a wounded animal had her frozen in place, unable to move.

Jeff grinned, a wide charming grin that had her heart doing flips in her chest. "You nearly took my head off there, Darlin'. Don't you think you should at least tell me who you are?" He lifted her hand with one of his own and placed it into his, clasping it, giving it a firm and friendly shake. "You owe me that much…near decapitation requires it." He followed his announcement with a wink.

Lizzie knew without the aid of a mirror that she was as red as the stripes on an American flag. "I, um…I'm Lizzie." She managed to choke out.

"Lizzie, short for Elizabeth?" He asked, smiling.

"No, Lizzie…short for Lizzie." She stuttered, then silently cursed herself for being an idiot.

Jeff chuckled. "Well, _'Lizzie short for Lizzie'_, do you eat Thai food often?"

"No." Again the clipped terrified response.

"Well," Jeff began. "Lemme help you out here." He turned her shoulders to face the menu, not knowing that the innocent touch had her legs turning to jelly. "They usually have so many choices in these places that unless you're real adventurous, it's best to stick with what you know."

"You look like chicken." The random comment from behind the two split Jeff's explanation down the middle and had both he and Lizzie turning in befuddlement.

It was Ken…and the comment was as arbitrary and foolish as any he'd ever made. He'd been watching the interaction between the two and his attempt to suggest a menu item had popped out like a badly timed verbal hiccup. He furrowed a brow and corrected himself. "What I _meant_ was, that you seem like the kind of girl who might like to try something with chicken…" His comment trailed off into an embarrassed murmur.

Lizzie held an expression of sheer confusion, one brow raised and the left side of her lips lifted as if she'd never heard such a thing. "O-okay." She concurred and ordered a chicken entrée, accepting her tray and moving down the line, half certain he was making fun of her like all the rest of the jocks in her life had done.

Jeff on the other hand lifted an arched brow, his own lip curling into an amused smile. _"You look like chicken?"_ he mouthed the words. "What the hell?"

Ken merely shrugged, and stared down at his shoe, which was at present boasting a black scuff mark on the toe. "I don't know…I was just trying to help and it came out wrong."

"You can cut some of the most amazing promos I've ever heard…in front of thousands…and the best you could come up with in a restaurant is _'You look like chicken'?_" Jeff chuckled softly as he accepted his own tray, moving down the line. "We need to work on your delivery, pal."

Lizzie took her seat at a table in the back of the restaurant away from the crowd of wrestlers, placing as much square footage between them and her as she could. _'You look like chicken'_, of all the things to say to someone! Lizzie was certain he'd meant it as a jab of sorts and if she was being fully honest with herself, she probably would admit that she did indeed look like a chicken. Skinny legs, pale skin, big eyes made bigger by the glasses…big sweaters that probably looked like wings. He had her pegged, but he didn't have to tease her in public…it was just plain rude!

Ken glanced up from his tray, eyes landing on her…Lizzie. She was currently shoveling the food in with a speed and accuracy that would have rivaled a prisoner deprived of a meal. He wished he'd been a little more eloquent…or had kept his mouth shut altogether. It seemed as of late that his very best talent was in confusing the already confused masses around him…offending the already offended.

"She really does, if you think about it." Shane Helms observed. "Look like a chicken, I mean." He pointed in Lizzie's direction, not bothering to lower his voice. "Big flapping wings…the sweater…a big brown chicken wearing a fuzzy wig."

"That's not what he meant when he said it." Jeff defended. "Be nice."

"Maybe not, but you have to admit it's pretty much right on."

Ken groused, a fierce frown splitting his expression in half. "Shut up." He said firmly. "You always have a fuckin' opinion, even when nobody wants it, don't you?"

"Easy, Man…I was just joking." Shane said matching Ken's glare.

"I'm not in a joking mood." Ken informed, pinning him with a sharp stare.

Shane slammed his fork down. "You're not in any kind of mood but a bad mood lately and everyone wishes you'd just snap out of it!"

"Why don't you snap me out of it." Ken challenged in an eerily calm voice, and with a roll of his muscular shoulders he stood up, his chair scraping loudly as it slid back.

Shane stood to his feet as well, but any thoughts of a scuffle were halted when Jeff placed himself bodily between the two men. "This isn't gonna help anything." He said. "And if the road agents get wind of this, we're gonna be at the top of a shit-list inside of minute. Sit down."

Both men still locked in a stare of silent defiance seemed to realize the value of his words. Shane sat, but Ken, still fuming from the confrontation slammed his chair back into position under the table's edge and stormed off to the bathroom.

Lizzie watched the incident with a mixture of fear and confusion, as she'd been unable to hear most of the dialogue. She chanced a glance at the hulking wrestler as he passed by her table on his way to the bathroom, catching little more than a whiff of his cologne. Something deep inside of her reminded Lizzie that she was out of place…again, and once finished with her entrée, she stood to her feet and rushed out, but not before she was stabbed with a hate-filled glare from Shane Helms.

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Jeff Hardy lay on his back in the tall grass at the top of the hill behind the hotel. He stared at the stars on the cloudless night, taking in the air, the breeze, the peace and quiet. Some days were so much harder than others and today was _definitely_ one of the harder days. Staying clean and sober was sorely testing his patience and when coupled with the responsibility of breaking up a near fight between his best friend, Ken and Shane Helms, the one guy on the roster who had the uncanny ability of pissing off everyone, it was just about all he could take.

Not to mention the fact that he had Genesis hadn't had a single intimate moment in more than a week and that was due in large part to the fact that his brother was latching onto him so tightly that he could barely breathe. And that's why he was on the hill, on his back, with his arms propped behind his head. After having Matt barge in earlier on his attempt to make love to his girlfriend, Jeff had blown a fuse and stomped out of the hotel room citing some threat to have hotel staff fired for giving Matt a duplicate key. Genesis, who was also equally furious had cussed a blue streak and stormed from the room to seek refuge with some of the Divas.

Jeff was contemplating rising from the tall grass and going to look for her when he heard something that caught his attention. It was the sound of rushing feet pounding through the grass, inches away from him. The sound was accompanied by desperate weeping and a grunt as the unknown person sank down into the grass a scant five feet away. He rolled silently to his stomach and peered through the grass to see who it was.

What he saw was _'Lizzie short for Lizzie'_, on the ground sobbing as if her life's dream had been ripped away from her.

"I hate this!" He heard her whisper fiercely between sobs. "I hate this!" much louder she repeated and then he watched as she began to vomit. She must be sick, he thought as the breeze carried the putrid stench of vomit past him. Jeff was half inclined to extend an offer to help her, but something in his gut kept him planted there on the ground. He continued to watch her cry and wretch until finally the apparent illness passed and she stood to her feet, the wails of desperation subsiding as she wiped her mouth on the sleeves of her sweater.

"You're a fucking loser, Lizzie." He heard her say and it was then that he knew he couldn't get up. If he stood up now, she would surely think that he'd been spying on her and that wouldn't work out well, of that he was certain.

He steadied his breathing so she wouldn't hear him and in less than a few seconds, she was trudging through the grass back down the hill and he let out a sigh, popping his head up to watch her walk away.

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	4. Chapter 4

Damned if he wasn't simply cursed to repeat his past failures

**An Addiction Apart **

Chapter 4

Rated – NC-17/MA

Author: Batistafan(given name, given on request)

Characters include: Jeff Hardy, Ken Kennedy, Shane Helms, and an Original Character from my first fiction, Lizzie McBride, as well as others.

_**Disclaimer**__**: This is a mature fanfiction intended for mature readers. This story contains graphic material dealing with addiction, as well as explicit, mature, consensual sexual situations and these would not be deemed appropriate for all readers.**_

_**I do not own nor claim to have any affiliation with the WWE, its characters, wrestlers, staff or other affiliates. I do own any original characters that I have created, as well as scenarios that ensue throughout the course of this fiction. However, since both my characters and scenarios are inexorably intertwined with those of the WWE, my ownership of them is not autonomous.**_

_**I do not endorse nor do I discourage the use of any brand-name products that might be referenced in the fiction and have no claim to them as they are property of their respective companies of license. Thank you kindly for not suing.**_

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Man never made any material as resilient as the human spirit.

-_Bernard Williams_

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The WWE set-up crew had only moments ago completed the pre-show erection of the 24 by 24 foot ring and exited through the service doors when Lizzie slipped inside of the empty arena through a side door. She knew that she wasn't supposed to be in here and she knew that if she were caught in the ring, she would be heavily reprimanded, but the temptation to do so was just too much for her to resist.

She cautiously placed one foot on the ring steps and then another. Lizzie cast a furtive glance over her right shoulder, confirming she was indeed alone and then she ducked between the bottom and middle rope, entering fully into the ring.

It wasn't as if Lizzie McBride even had any notable interest in wrestling, this just seemed to be the quietest place she could find for the time being. And her presence in the ring without anyone's permission was also terribly risqué, which was why it held such an amazing appeal for her at the moment. Lizzie had an overwhelming desire to rebel in some way or another; to do something that was forbidden and get away with it. Control in secret…something she was very good at. Secrets.

She didn't know any wrestling moves and there really was nothing that she could do other than gallop around the ring like a blind pony…and so she did. A little hop here and a jump there, testing the semi-solid surface.

"You're a dork." She told herself softly and then she summoned a bit of athletic bravery and did a little cartwheel in the center of the ring. This only forced the oversized sweater to slide down over her head and shoulders, binding her movements and causing her to fall on her rear-end.

The ring mat was softer than she would have thought and she let out a giggle at the thought of how very scandalous she was being. That, and the fact that anyone with true wrestling skill who might be watching would probably also be laughing their ass off. And that's when it hit her…the memory of the moment in the restaurant, where Ken Kennedy had teased her and Shane Helms had told his buddies that she _did_ look like a chicken. Lizzie was never going to get away from that…from being a laughing-stock. Someone always got their laughs at her expense, even when she hadn't intended it.

She sighed as a small tear made its way down her cheek. Phillip never laughed at her—never. Phillip was the _only_ one. He had always told her that she could do anything she wanted to do in life. _'You were made for big things, Lizzie. Good things. Don't ever let anyone tell you that you weren't'._

But Phillip was wrong, because for all of his confidence in her, she was still a '_nobody'_. The self made façade; the self-protective dam broke and Lizzie began to weep—there in the northeast corner of the ring, sitting on her butt with her back pressed against the bottom turnbuckle.

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Jeff Hardy was ready to rip out every last strand of his hair and Matt's too if he thought he could get away with it. He pulled the side door of the arena entrance open and slipped in through the darkened entryway, stepping out into the yawning arena. What he had expected to be an empty ring in which he could take out a few of his frustrations proved to be _other_ than empty. He knew immediately who it was when he spied the brown sweater. _'Lizzie short for Lizzie'_. And she _wasn't_ supposed to be in the ring.

A road agent, that might happen upon her, catching her in the ring would rip her head off for the infraction and carry it around on a pike as an example to others. He knew he had better tell her that she should get out of there, that the ring was for wrestlers _only_, but the closer he got to the ring as he traipsed down the aisle, the less appealing the idea became. She was crying—that much he could tell by the way her shoulders shook as she cradled her head in her hands with her knees tucked up to her chin. It suddenly occurred to him that she might have been toying around in the massive ring and had somehow managed to hurt herself, yet the feeling in his gut told him that wasn't the reason for her tears.

Something about the scene in front of him was so deeply disturbing that he found himself swallowing a lump as it formed in the base of his throat. He could sense and feel the frustration and the anger that she gave off. He could tell it in the way she sobbed, the same way she had the night before, up on the hill behind the hotel when she was puking her guts up. She was almost desperate—and for what and why he couldn't say, but he knew he had to help.

"You know they have some pretty good wrestling schools if you're interested in that sort of thing." Jeff said softly as he slid under the bottom rope on his stomach.

Lizzie startled, jerking her head up and then after studying her intruder warily, she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and quickly snapped her glasses back onto her face. They slipped down her nose immediately. "I was just—I just—" She stuttered trying to cover for the fact that she was somewhere she shouldn't be.

"Not a big deal." Jeff chuckled softly. "Although someone else who finds you here might consider it a big deal."

She nodded and started to get to her feet. Awkward in her movements, with her sweater askew, _'Lizzie short for Lizzie'_ looked as disheveled as a bum.

A desperation to know why she was so deeply saddened washed over Jeff and he asked, "So do you always make it a habit of weeping in empty wrestling rings?"

"I wasn't crying." Lizzie insisted, pushing the hopelessly large glasses up again.

Jeff nodded as if he believed her. "Oh, must have been one hell of an allergy attack then."

Lizzie scowled, the facial expression causing the glasses to slip. "It's not really any of your business anyhow."

He laughed. "Fair enough…but you _do_ know the penalty when a veteran wrestler catches a rookie in the ring without permission, right?"

Penalty? There was a penalty for such a thing? Surely he would go tattle and Lizzie would find herself behind the business end of a broom by the end of the show. "I didn't know there was one." She admitted, her voice trailing off.

"Oh yeah." Jeff continued, trying to keep a straight face. "The roster lines up and we all give the rookie chops."

"Chops?" Lizzie inquired.

"Chops." Jeff confirmed, giving his own chest a smack. "Only much harder."

Her azure eyes widened, but then as the realization that he was teasing dawned on her, she furrowed a brow and let out a little sigh of disgust.

"The penalty for lying to a veteran wrestler is much worse." He persisted, shaking his head sadly. "And you've done both in the span of only a few minutes…I'd say you're in for one hell of a day."

"Nobody asked you." Was Lizzie's curt response.

"You _were_ crying weren't you?"

"It's nobody's business, dammit!" Lizzie snapped. "You and your people don't care about people like me and you never will."

"My _people_?" Jeff tapped his chest. "What makes you think I'm so much different than you are, huh?"

"I can just tell."

"Oh, I'm in the presence of a true expert in social classification." Jeff announced wryly and then asked. "So is that the disturbing fact that's got you in the ring feeling sorry for yourself?"

Lizzie felt the blood rush to her head in her anger. The nerve of this man! He didn't know anything about her life and truth be told he could care less…it was just another attempt on his part to make her feel worse than she already did. "I wasn't feeling sorry for myself!" She nearly roared her claim.

"Another lie." He shook his head once more. "Somebody's in for a piledriver soon."

"Shut up! You don't know shit about my life!" However inclined Lizzie had been to leave the ring a scant second prior, she was now instantly prepared to turn and fight. That miniscule fact scared and confused her, because she'd never had the temptation to stand up for herself before.

"Sure I do." He announced a bit firmly. "I know that you think you have the market cornered on misery, and clearly you don't."

"No wonder wrestlers get in the ring night after night and beat the shit out of each other!" Lizzie huffed, her fists balled against her sides as if she were trying to prevent them from taking on a life of their own. "You people are too stupid to do anything else in life!"

The deep and reverberating chuckle rumbled from his throat as he threw his head back absorbing the levity of her rash comment. "In my opinion…wrestlers are the smart ones." Jeff began, "We choose wrestling not only as a coping mechanism, but as a way to make a living and it's a hell of a lot more fun to get into this ring and beat the shit out of each other than to sit next to a turnbuckle and cry!" He stood to his feet noticing that she momentarily surveyed him as if he might unleash some sort of fury on her.

Lizzie nearly snorted her laughter. "Yeah right!" she spat. "If wrestling were really that damned helpful as a coping mechanism, then _everyone_ would be doing it and saving hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of therapy!"

"Maybe you should try it before you discount it altogether." He found himself suggesting.

"No, I-I couldn't…_wouldn't_ do something like that." She quickly shook her head.

"Chicken." Jeff challenged.

Lizzie scowled so fiercely her face hurt. "What the hell is it with you people and your references to chicken?" she faced him fully and pointed one slender finger toward him. "I don't _look_ like a chicken! I'm _not_ a chicken! I don't even particularly _like_ chicken! I'm pretty sure I don't even like _you_!"

"Then do something about it." Jeff answered. "Just clothesline me or something…I bet you'd feel better."

"Are you completely off your nut?" Lizzie asked in exasperation.

"Possibly…" He tilted his head to the side. "Clothesline me."

"No!" She stomped one Buster Brown encased foot on the mat. "I won't do that!"

"You won't or you can't?" He further taunted. "You're a WWE employee, don't tell me you've never heard of a clothesline or seen it done."

"Of course I've seen one! But that doesn't matter cuz I don't wanna do it!"

"Coward."

"I'm not a coward!" Lizzie practically wailed.

"Then do it!" Jeff shouted fiercely, his face a wash of anger and defiance.

Lizzie in her fury lost the reflex to resist and she flew forward with her right arm striking Jeff across the chest. He didn't budge, but Lizzie bounced off and with her eyes widening in fear and confusion, she asked. "Aren't you supposed to fall down or something?"

"Not for something that weak." He teased. "I've been hit harder by a lawsuit. Now hit me and put some stink on it!" He gestured with his arms and watched as her face contorted into a mask of intense concentration, her blue eyes narrowing to fiery slits.

Lizzie backed up and like a bull chasing a matador, she ran forward and slammed her arm across his chest. Jeff went down with a thunderous slam and rolled up onto his feet. "Do it again…harder this time."

"I can't."

"Again dammit!" He ordered.

Again Lizzie came at him, sending him down to the mat and again he rolled to his feet. "Now do it again only this time jump with it and come down on your stomach as I go back."

This time there was no hesitation on her part. Lizzie ran and flew threw the air. Her arm connected with his chest and she went down as he went down. The sound of them both connecting with the mat and the feeling of flying was exhilarating for Lizzie and she rolled over onto her back and stared up at the ceiling, the slightest hint of a smile caressed her lips.

"Was it as good for you as it was for me?" Jeff asked as he too lay on his back.

This offhand comment forced Lizzie to cackle and she responded. "Would you be too terribly offended if I said I'd had better?"

"Oh hell…" Jeff laughed out loud. "I'd be offended if you said you didn't least feel better."

"I do." She admitted.

"So do you still think wrestlers are idiots?" He chanced to ask.

"Well you have to be at least a little crazy to do this all the time."

"You're a natural…sure you don't wanna give training a try?" Jeff teased, as he watched her stand to her feet, extending him a hand.

Lizzie grinned and pushed her lopsided glasses up on her face. "As appealing as that sounds, I think I'll stick with my chosen career field."

"Probably a good idea, _'Lizzie short for Lizzie'_." He said. "You'll live longer."

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Damned if he wasn't simply cursed to repeat his past failures! Ken Kennedy had trudged down the darkened stairwell to the hotel's basement laundry facilities, with a pretreated shirt slung over his shoulder and he'd just happened to be thinking about the previous day's verbal debacle in the Thai restaurant. He'd been rewording the badly timed comment in his mind, trying to soothe the sting of embarrassment as he opened the glass door to the laundry-room and there she was. Damn!

She was piling what he assumed was her own laundry into the last available washer, which meant Ken would either have to go back upstairs and hand-wash the shirt in the bathroom sink of his hotel room, or he would have to do the unthinkable—ask her if he could toss his shirt in with hers. Before he could fully rationalize what he was about to do, his mouth raced ahead of his better judgment and he spoke.

"Lights or darks?"

Lizzie spun around and upon realizing who it was, her mouth popped open and out of it she managed to blurt a confused. "Huh?"

'_Oh for God's sake!'_ Ken grumbled inwardly. He hadn't been able to mutter an intelligible sentence or remark in days and now seemed to be no different. He blew out a puff of air before speaking again. "I was just…I sort of had an accident at lunch and my shirt…I pretreated it but the washers are full and I was thinking if you were washing darks…" He stumbled through the explanation, fully aware that not only was she washing a load of darks, but that he was a complete fool. "I could give you a couple of bucks if you'd let me toss this in with yours."

Lizzie stood there, with her mouth still wide open, a pair of black pants in her hand, staring at him and wondering if he might have a history of mental illness.

Sensing her hesitation, Ken announced, "I can take this back upstairs if you—it's no big deal, I can see you're busy." He turned to go, but then halted when he heard her speak.

"It'll set."

"Huh?" He asked turning to the sound of her voice, confused as to what she meant.

"The stain." She motioned to the shirt he now held in his hand. "It'll set if you wait…" A small uncomfortable pause settled between the two and then she finally motioned for the shirt. "You can put it in with mine."

"Thanks, I appreciate it." A small relieved smile lit up Ken's countenance and he placed the shirt in the washer on the top of her pile and watched as she added the soap. He sidestepped her and placed a row of shiny quarters into the slots.

"No, you don't have to do—" Lizzie began.

"It's okay, seriously. You're doing me a huge favor." He interrupted.

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"I think he has me lo-jacked!" Jeff groused in sheer irritation as he carried the empty laundry basket downstairs to retrieve his and Matt's laundry. He was incensed at the constant interruptions and the inability to hide from his brother just to have a moment alone.

Genesis who was following a few steps behind voiced her irritation as well. "It's not like I expected him to be out of our lives completely, but it would be nice to have a free minute without the guy."

"Why do you think I offered to do his laundry?" Jeff waggled his eyebrows. "I fully planned to get you alone in the laundry room. We could always take advantage of the spin-cycle."

"I am not going to the naughty with you on top of a washer." Genesis announced.

"How about on the folding table down here?" He suggested, pinning her against the wall in the stairwell.

Genesis smiled at the suggestion. Leave it to Jeff to find a way to put a happy spin on a frustrating situation. "The table could work." She agreed kissing him softly on the lips.

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"I could always bring it up to you when it's done." Lizzie offered, tilting her head to indicate the shirt in the washer.

Ken seated himself in a chair by the wall, pulling his cell-phone out of his pocket, pretending to read some phantom text message. "It's cool, I can wait."

Lizzie nodded, wondering why a fellow of his obvious popularity didn't have some previous engagement that would prevent him from waiting a half hour for a shirt. She merely nodded and clutched her laundry bag, preparing to retreat through the door.

"Hey, uh…" Ken blurted out, hoping to make an attempt at remedying his idiocy. "Some of the wrestlers are getting together tonight after the show, at a club…if you wanna come."

A flashback of the ill-fated high-school party ran through Lizzie's conscience. This invitation was no doubt a similar opportunity to enact some sort of humiliation. "No thanks, I don't hang-out with wrestlers." She answered a little two quickly and then realized that it sounded more like an insult than a refusal.

If it was meant to be an insult, Ken didn't seem to take it as such. "Well, it wouldn't be just wrestlers…there are usually quite a few people from the staff who go to these things and it's just a way to decompress."

Lizzie seemed to be contemplating his offer for a moment, as she stood there, the bag dangling from one hand.

Jeff and Genesis stood soundlessly in the doorway after having observed the casual encounter. "Tell her she should go." Jeff whispered, nudging Genesis with his elbow. He thought that an invitation like the one Ken had just made might be the trick to helping both of them, as awkward as they were.

"Why?" Gen asked behind the shield of her hand.

"Just do it." Jeff hissed, nudging her forward.

Too late to back out now. Both Ken and Lizzie had spotted Genesis when she stumbled out of the shadows. "He's right you know." Gen stammered thinking on her feet. "I'm staff and I hang-out with them all the time, it's pretty harmless stuff."

Lizzie couldn't help but recall the cheerleader who had lured her to the party to humiliate her. Was that what this girl was doing? Setting her up, so that Ken and the rest of the wrestlers would have someone to taunt? "I really don't think I should go."

"Come on, you'll have a great time and if for some reason you don't I'll make sure that Ken has to run laps around the hotel in his underwear." Jeff stepped forward from the shadows.

Everything else seemed insignificant when Lizzie thought of the offer coming from Jeff Hardy's lips. How could she possibly say 'No'? Even if she was forced to sit at a table across the room from him, it would be worth it, just to remember that he'd invited her. And after what Jeff had done for her in the ring earlier, Lizzie could hardly insult him by not accepting an offer to do something normal. Ken Kennedy seemed all but forgotten as Lizzie accepted the offer and then rushed out of the laundry room with stars in her eyes.


End file.
